Remembering my discovery of masochism
Most of my dungeon play is as a bottom; pain and discomfort are an integral part of my recreational life. And in some of my other hobbies as well; I can't train, run, practice gymnastics, and rock climb regularly without the occasional injury. In fact, sports injuries led me to BDSM, purely by happenstance!
A runner's high is an endorphin release triggered by sustained high effort exercise. The addition of pain from a source unrelated to the exercise (one that doesn't disrupt the constant effort), in my first case, a couple of bee stings to my forehead in a 10k race, deepens and extends the duration of the high, even after the exercise ends. "Hi there, Serendipity, glad you stopped by." Another human activity that releases an endorphin flood (with a different mixture of endorphins) *plus* Oxytocin is orgasm. I wondered what a mixture might feel like. I'm so glad I did. Teammates, standers by, and even a coach wondered why, at the end of a race (even if I won) I headed directly to the port-a-potties instead of taking a victory or cool-down lap. I never told them and no one ever guessed that I was in there frantically rubbing one out before the high dissipated.
As a faithful free porn viewer at the time I encountered mentions of subspace which led me away from the general sites toward BDSM-centric sites, and then to models/performers who seemed to specialize in combined G-spot and clitoral orgasms while in subspace. One in particular fascinated me, as she seemed to lose all communications ability, speaking (or, more often, shouting) strings of disjoint syllables and the seeming loss of the ability to follow simple English instructions. I vowed that someday I would investigate those possibilities.
As far as early, totally solo, uninspired by external events adventures in masochism are concerned, I think my first was on my birthday. Both parent's families had the (mostly European) tradition of "Birthday Paddling" wherein the birthday c***d would lie on Mom's lap face down, butt cheeks exposed to the air, and receive one spank, paddle strike, or stroke with a leather strop (k**'s choice) per year, plus "one to grow on" and "a pinch to grow a half an inch."
I positioned myself on Mom's lap, she raised the skirt of my birthday dress, lowered my panties, and commenced spanking at about one spank per five seconds. By the sixth spank I was squirming in anticipation of the next spank; she thought it had to do with discomfort. Well, it did, but not like she thought it did. I asked her to please continue to give me all of the spanks I deserved. She resumed with a spank that wouldn't have cracked an egg on a concrete sidewalk. I regret that my Dad wasn't filming as I jumped up, panties around my ankles wearing a frilly Daddy's princess dress chastising my 35-year-old Mom wearing black Chino's and a desert camouflage wife beater without a bra.
Mom and Dad exchanged some telepathic parent speak, ending with Mom nodding. She pulled me over her lap with a hand on my upper arm and held me in place. She raised her other arm and I'm all but bubbling in anticipation. Spank! Slightly more forceful than any that came before. I hid my grin in the couch cushions. "One." I stifled an expression of joy and started to squirm in anticipation of the next spank.
"If you continue to squirm your birthday is over for this year." I immediately froze.
The rest of the ceremony went exactly as intended. I was very pleased.
Later in the day I was in the kitchen, topping off a glass of water, when my sight was drawn to the spurtle vase (an old wide-mouth half gallon canning jar usually holding over a dozen, mostly wooden, spurtles). I selected a spoon shaped perforated one, tucked it under my dress and up past my belt where it would be firmly held, and proceeded to my room.
I put my water on my desk, and opened my small coat closet to access the full-length mirror on the inside of the door. I grabbed the spurtle, dropped my panties, tucked the hem of my dress behind my belt, turned to point my backside at the mirror, looked over my shoulder, and admired the lovely red glow of my cheeks and bent over.
I held the spurtle as if it were a quoit and I wanted to encourage a horse to lengthen his gait. Thwack! I jumped, dropped the spurtle, barely stifled a yelp, and started to rub the impact zone, which was fairly painful but really satisfying at the same time.
So that's how I recognized my masochistic phase and started to explore that part of my personality. Oh, that spurtle didn't get back to the kitchen for a few years.
I was hooked.
A runner's high is an endorphin release triggered by sustained high effort exercise. The addition of pain from a source unrelated to the exercise (one that doesn't disrupt the constant effort), in my first case, a couple of bee stings to my forehead in a 10k race, deepens and extends the duration of the high, even after the exercise ends. "Hi there, Serendipity, glad you stopped by." Another human activity that releases an endorphin flood (with a different mixture of endorphins) *plus* Oxytocin is orgasm. I wondered what a mixture might feel like. I'm so glad I did. Teammates, standers by, and even a coach wondered why, at the end of a race (even if I won) I headed directly to the port-a-potties instead of taking a victory or cool-down lap. I never told them and no one ever guessed that I was in there frantically rubbing one out before the high dissipated.
As a faithful free porn viewer at the time I encountered mentions of subspace which led me away from the general sites toward BDSM-centric sites, and then to models/performers who seemed to specialize in combined G-spot and clitoral orgasms while in subspace. One in particular fascinated me, as she seemed to lose all communications ability, speaking (or, more often, shouting) strings of disjoint syllables and the seeming loss of the ability to follow simple English instructions. I vowed that someday I would investigate those possibilities.
As far as early, totally solo, uninspired by external events adventures in masochism are concerned, I think my first was on my birthday. Both parent's families had the (mostly European) tradition of "Birthday Paddling" wherein the birthday c***d would lie on Mom's lap face down, butt cheeks exposed to the air, and receive one spank, paddle strike, or stroke with a leather strop (k**'s choice) per year, plus "one to grow on" and "a pinch to grow a half an inch."
I positioned myself on Mom's lap, she raised the skirt of my birthday dress, lowered my panties, and commenced spanking at about one spank per five seconds. By the sixth spank I was squirming in anticipation of the next spank; she thought it had to do with discomfort. Well, it did, but not like she thought it did. I asked her to please continue to give me all of the spanks I deserved. She resumed with a spank that wouldn't have cracked an egg on a concrete sidewalk. I regret that my Dad wasn't filming as I jumped up, panties around my ankles wearing a frilly Daddy's princess dress chastising my 35-year-old Mom wearing black Chino's and a desert camouflage wife beater without a bra.
Mom and Dad exchanged some telepathic parent speak, ending with Mom nodding. She pulled me over her lap with a hand on my upper arm and held me in place. She raised her other arm and I'm all but bubbling in anticipation. Spank! Slightly more forceful than any that came before. I hid my grin in the couch cushions. "One." I stifled an expression of joy and started to squirm in anticipation of the next spank.
"If you continue to squirm your birthday is over for this year." I immediately froze.
The rest of the ceremony went exactly as intended. I was very pleased.
Later in the day I was in the kitchen, topping off a glass of water, when my sight was drawn to the spurtle vase (an old wide-mouth half gallon canning jar usually holding over a dozen, mostly wooden, spurtles). I selected a spoon shaped perforated one, tucked it under my dress and up past my belt where it would be firmly held, and proceeded to my room.
I put my water on my desk, and opened my small coat closet to access the full-length mirror on the inside of the door. I grabbed the spurtle, dropped my panties, tucked the hem of my dress behind my belt, turned to point my backside at the mirror, looked over my shoulder, and admired the lovely red glow of my cheeks and bent over.
I held the spurtle as if it were a quoit and I wanted to encourage a horse to lengthen his gait. Thwack! I jumped, dropped the spurtle, barely stifled a yelp, and started to rub the impact zone, which was fairly painful but really satisfying at the same time.
So that's how I recognized my masochistic phase and started to explore that part of my personality. Oh, that spurtle didn't get back to the kitchen for a few years.
I was hooked.
vor 2 Jahren